Elementary
by wecouldexplorethegalaxy
Summary: In which Watson is a bit more observant than Holmes gives him credit for; an unpublished account by Dr. John H. Watson.


**Well, this is public domain now, so I don't know how disclaimers work. Whatever. **

**Beta'd by nature's most perfect grammar machine and style expert, Rosey.**

I must confess that, over the course of my long and intimate friendship with Sherlock Holmes, I have found myself baffled by his antics a large portion, if not a disproportionate majority, of the time. Not least among these antics were the strange fits of sentimentality to which he was given. On these occasions, the tenderness which he exhibited was far removed from his usual brisk and business-like demeanor. I can recall one such incident, the first of many which stand out in my mind, with a clarity that belies the circumstances, as I was half out of my senses with fever at the time.

It was only a month or so into my marriage that I had contracted some foreign malady through contact with a patient, and Mary was at the time visiting her elderly mother in the country. She would have returned immediately had I asked, but I was more than certain that my illness was not a serious one and that her time would be better spent in the twilit company of her mother. So, I had been prepared to care for myself to the best of my abilities.

It came, then, as quite a shock to me to discover, upon waking one late afternoon from that half-dreaming state that plagues the ill, the sound of clattering from my kitchen. Even in my muddled state I recalled that Mary was not home and that I had not admitted anyone else to our abode, and so I staggered to my feet, the coverlet falling from my lap and tangling about my ankles. I took my pistol from the sideboard, as I was not unused to the threat of danger, thanks to my time at Baker Street.

"Who's there?" I called out.

Upon receiving no answer but a renewed racket, I advanced cautiously to the door, pistol held aloft. I remember thinking what fine sight it would be to Mary if she were to return home only to find a dead man on her floor, and I resolved that if such a thing became necessary, I at least would not be the one on the floor.

I swung about suddenly, bringing the kitchen into view and hoping to take the intruder by surprise. However, the sudden movement proved to have been a miscalculation on my part, and brought on a wave of dizziness that nearly felled me.

When I had recovered my senses sufficiently, I became aware of one lean arm wrapped around my waist, and the other about my shoulders, doubtless the reason I had not fallen against the door and hit my head. My reaction to this was not alarm, as one might expect, but merely recognition, as I would know that particular set of arms anywhere.

"Holmes," said I, a little vacantly. "How did you get in?"

"My dear fellow," he replied with a chuckle as he helped me back to the armchair which had become the central location of my convalescence. "It took me less than a minute to pick the lock. You must really have that seen to; it is quite deplorably simple. Why, imagine if I had been a thief!"

"What," I began, resolving to get to the heart of the matter in as direct a manner as possible, "are you doing in my kitchen?"

"Making you tea," Holmes answered. He looked rather affronted, as though it should have been quite obvious, though in my mind the business of making tea did not require nearly as much noise as he had been making.

"Were you having much trouble?" I asked, rather uncharitably it must be said, but in my own defense my illness had removed me from my usual self.

"A bit," Holmes replied in his careless way, and swept back into the kitchen. "I'm sure I don't know why you deviated from the manner in which we organized things in Baker Street. It was so much more efficient." The clatter of Holmes' search began anew.

"Holmes, in Baker Street we just left things where they fell," said I with a sigh.

"Yes, well, we always knew where they were then, didn't we?" he said, briskly.

"That wouldn't suit Mary at all," I said with a weak chuckle. I was well and truly settled back into my chair, and a pleasant sleepy sort of peace was stealing over me. I knew I was likely to regret giving Holmes free reign in my home to-morrow, but at the moment I was merely happy to be in the company of my oldest and best friend.

I had almost drifted into slumber when he approached with a steaming mug held in his long, pale hands.

"It took me a ridiculous length of time to find where you kept the tea," said he, as he deposited the mug on the table top by my side. "It was only the residue on the countertop which alerted me to its location. You really don't keep house well without her, do you?"

"Better than you do without me, I'd wager," I returned sleepily. The burst of energy which had so filled me at the thought of danger was fading quickly now that I knew I was in capable hands. Thus, my memory grows hazy just as the story grows the most interesting.

For years I have endeavored to chronicle every aspect of my friend's fascinating and singular personality, and yet the personal nature of this particular anecdote forbids me to ever publish it as I have other, more professional, episodes. I record it merely to aid my own mind in its recollection, as I would be loathe to forget such a unique occurrence.

At the very moment I found myself on the brink of sleep, Holmes said, "You're right, of course, John. And…I do wish you'd come back," and I felt the brush of his lips across my burning forehead.

There is no doubt in my mind that Holmes, despite his incredible aptitude for observation, believed me to be asleep and therefore unconscious of his actions, for I had never known him to show his heart so plainly. He has since made other, smaller gestures of methodically increasing gravity of this type despite my perfect cognizance, which leads me to the conclusion that the first gesture had been spontaneous, and entirely unlike his usual self, and which most probably spurred more recent events.

I thought nothing of it until the next morning when my fever had greatly subsided, for in my addled state it had seemed a perfectly natural thing. Only when I awoke did I realize how uncharacteristic Holmes' gesture had been. He is, in all ways, a logical, rational man, not given over to displays of affection or kindliness. True, his sharp-edged demeanor softens with me, as I have known him long and well, but despite our closeness we had never called each other by our given names, nor had there ever been any kind of physical contact of the sort which Holmes had initiated.

To say it left me confused would be a grievous misappropriation of the word. It would, in fact, be rather like calling a lion a house cat, or perhaps like calling a shark a house cat. Fortunately—or unfortunately, as my feelings on the matter fluctuated daily, if not hourly—this was far from the last time Holmes expressed himself in so unusual a way. Perhaps he had been doing it long before and I simply had not noticed; regardless, after that first display, there was no shortage of odd moments between Holmes and I.

To say that I am often of two minds about Holmes is an understatement. And yet I always find that, in the end, he has a very good reason for even those most outlandish things. So I suppose that one day, when it suits him, as is his habit, he shall explain what he means by these increasingly personal moments. I will not understand at first, but once he tells me everything it will, of course, turn out to have been elementary all along.


End file.
